


Rightful Place

by JDWraith



Series: Charringford Holmes [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alpha Erik, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha T'Challa (Marvel), Alpha Tony Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Awkward Sexual Situations, Beta Greg Lestrade, Beta Pepper Potts, But I still love happy endings - so there's that, Discrimination, Forced Bonding, Kidnapping, M is Mummy Holmes, M/M, Moriarty's Revenge, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-consensual scientific experimentation, Not Canon Compliant, Now she's involved in the World Security Council, Omega Charles, Omega John, Only referenced as part of character history, Other, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Reference to Past Spousal Abuse, Secret Admirer, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Slavery, Sounds dreadful I know, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, non-powered mutants, not the main characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 13:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10361187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDWraith/pseuds/JDWraith
Summary: It's been nearly five months since Moriarty kidnapped Charles.  Now John's most closely guarded secret is about to be exposed.  With the help of his family and friends he struggles to come to terms with a new understanding of himself and his place in the world.  And all of them must deal with the dangerous surprises left behind by a thwarted and vengeful James Moriarty.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of the Charringford Holmes series. To understand it fully you will really need to read the first story - Caring is Not an Advantage.
> 
> Please read the tags for trigger warnings. Dark themes are explored but generally not in a graphic way and frequently deal with background rather than current events.
> 
> The main fandom in here is Sherlock (BBC TV), which is blended with a totally non-canon, non-powered (although hopefully still somewhat in character) X-Men AU. The Avengers and Bond fandoms are principally background although the Avengers do make a fairly significant appearance in this chapter.
> 
> Please enjoy!

As John approached the front door of 221B his eyes were automatically drawn to the door knocker.  It had been pulled askew when he'd left.  

Now it was perfectly straight. 

He glanced around.  In addition to the two tough looking betas who had been shadowing him at the supermarket he noted a watchful couple looking out the window of Speedy's and a black sedan with heavily tinted windows parked halfway down the street. 

Right.

John transferred the shopping into one hand and let himself inside.  Mrs Hudson's door was closed, her flat silent and unlit.  She and Mrs Turner were away enjoying an all-expense paid luxury cruise won in a competition neither remembered entering.  John stood at the bottom of the staircase and listened.  No shouting.  No screeching violin.  So ... one of their more civil encounters.  John transferred half of the bags to his free hand to balance the weight and started up the stairs.  Just as he reached the top the door to their flat swung open.  Sherlock silently took one of the handfuls of shopping and stood aside to allow John to enter. 

Mycroft was sitting in John's chair.  He gave John a silent nod.  A manila folder rested on the coffee table.

"Case?" John murmured as his friend joined him in the kitchen to pile the shopping on the bench.  Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head then headed back into the lounge stony faced.  John bit his lip and quickly filled and put on the kettle.

Moriarty.

It had been nineteen weeks since the Brookhaven apartments.  Five months of revelations, plotting and constant, paranoid vigilance.  Moriarty had gone after Charringford Holmes with the single mindedness of a hound chasing a scent.  Within hours of their confrontation, Charles's New York apartment and his office and lab at Columbia University had been rigged with full electronic surveillance. The same was then done to the homes and offices of each of the omega's closest friends and associates.  When Moriarty learned where Charles was staying, two separate teams of elite hackers were simultaneously set against Tony Stark's computer systems.  Stark had laughed, saying it would be good practice for someone called Jarvis.  He'd been less amused when their third attack crashed the system at Stark Industries' Miami headquarters and apparently got through all but two of the firewalls at the Tower.  Twelve hours later the billionaire genius reported with grim satisfaction that not only had he erected new, even stronger firewalls around all of his systems but that he had located both nests of hackers.  The team in India were already in custody.  The team in Moscow, mistakenly believing they had evaded his counter attack, were unwittingly relaying highly sensitive information about their Russian mob clients to SHIELD. 

Moriarty's next step was to procure the blueprints for not only Avengers Tower, but for five hospitals in central New York.  "City Hall doesn't know my secrets," Stark dismissed.  But the hospitals?  Nobody liked how hospitals might fit into Moriarty's plans.  On Day 8, Moriarty ordered an attack on Charles's best friend and fellow geneticist, Dr Moira McTaggert. It was supposed to look like a mugging.

"Watch over her, warn her," Charles stated during one of their frequent, trans-Atlantic conference calls with Avengers Tower and SHIELD headquarters, "but don't intervene unless absolutely necessary.  Moira can handle it." 

"She can _handle_ it?" challenged a strident voice John had quickly come to recognise as SHIELD Director Nick Fury.  "Mr Xavier, their intention is to put this woman in intensive care."

"It's _Dr_ Xavier Director Fury," Charles advised smoothly.  "And Dr McTaggert is ex- CIA.  She was a field agent.  A _very good_ field agent.   We discussed the possibility she would be targeted before I went to London. Moira understands the risks and wants to help."  Two days later Fury reported that the would be muggers were in custody.

"Well, in hospital under armed guard," he'd clarified.  "Your friend's damned impressive Dr Xavier.  I'm thinking we should recruit her."

"You should take her to dinner," Charles suggested. "You made quite the positive impression Colonel.  She likes Moroccan." 

"Yeah?" came the surprisingly unguarded reply.

And all the while data poured in.  Bank accounts, safe houses, weapons stashes and most importantly names - names of people on Moriarty's payroll or under his influence.  John didn't know most of those names but he couldn't fail to observe that some made even Mycroft Holmes blanch.  

"Risk and opportunity Mycroft," Mummy Holmes intoned sagely when the two of them discussed the issue obliquely.  "These people will need _someone_ to step in when Moriarty is gone."  John couldn't help but wonder just how powerful the elder Holmeses would become by the time they put Moriarty down.

On day 13, Moriarty started talking about 'delivering packages'.  He also took an inordinate interest in the New York sewer system.

"We need to take the initiative," a new voice stated at their next conference call.  John unconsciously found his back straightening in response to the firm, commanding tone.

"Who is speaking?" Mycroft demanded.

"Steve Rogers, Mr Holmes.  Director Fury has briefed the rest of the Avengers on the situation.  We'd like to help."  Steve Rogers?  Captain America?  John blinked.  How had this become his life?

"What do you suggest Captain Rogers?" Mycroft asked coolly.

"It's harder to attack from the back foot, sir.  That's where we need to put Moriarty.  Put him there and keep him there.  Seems to me you've gathered a lot of very useful information about this man's operation.  I think it's time to use some of that information.  Go on the offensive."  Mycroft considered.  He glanced at Sherlock who nodded.

"We agree.  And we have a number of ideas.  But it needs to be done in such a way that he does not realise what is happening and where it is coming from until it is too late.  The priority is crippling Moriarty's access to his American assets and allies.  Unfortunately, my own sphere of influence on your continent is somewhat limited.  This is especially the case here as the information we have obtained confirms that Moriarty has managed to infiltrate all of the world's major intelligence agencies, including SHIELD.

"Not the Avengers Mr Holmes," Rogers stated confidently.  A small smile quirked at Mycroft's lips.

"No Captain Rogers.  Not the Avengers." 

And so the Avengers went after Moriarty.

Stark worked 60 hours straight to come up with sewer robots that covertly monitored hundreds of kilometres of underground tunnels.  They located Moriarty's henchman preparing an underground assault on the Avengers Tower timed to coincide with the detonation of bombs designed to collapse parts of the subway across town.  Those plans fell apart when said henchman were attacked by a swarm of screeching, red-eyed robotic rats.  Many of the fleeing felons were sprayed with a non-harmful, mildly radioactive chemical devised by Dr Banner allowing their further movements to be tracked for the next thirty days or so. The look on Sherlock and Mycroft's faces when Stark declared himself King Rat and started a surprisingly tuneful duet of the theme song from "Ben" with Clint Barton had been absolutely priceless. 

Black Widow and Hawkeye attacked Moriarty on a different front.  Each infiltrated the lower levels of one of the larger crime organisations in the city claiming to have left the Spider's service because they didn't like where things were headed.  In particular, they confided that the brilliant alpha was obsessed with getting his hands on an omega under the personal protection of the Avengers.  This obsession was causing him to make dangerously compromised decisions and costing him a fortune.  

Shortly afterwards, both agents hurriedly advised their new co-workers that they were leaving the country because word was out that the Spider was hunting down former employees.  This sad tale was retold to a number of different cartels.  Not long afterwards, drugs and weapons shipments started going missing.  Not seized by the authorities, just ... missing - inexplicably vanishing from the warehouses and disused factories they were stored in.  Guards swore they had not left their posts and that it would have taken superhuman strength to move the dozens of heavy crates now missing without the use of forklifts and trucks. 

An obsessed and distracted Moriarty didn't pay much attention. It wasn't costing him anything.  In fact, his underlings had been able to claim a healthy premium for his assistance in organising replacement shipments at short notice.  Black Widow supplied some of those goods whilst pretending to work for an established business contact.  Unfortunately for Moriarty, one of the organisations buying from him recognised the packaging used in the replacement shipment as their own.  Rumours spread like wildfire.  

The spider had turned thief. 

Then someone tried to kill the boss of the wronged cartel.  A man who had been very vocal about his displeasure at being sold back his own goods.  Hawkeye's shot had artfully missed by millimetres.  The message went out loud and clear.  The spider was not just a thief.  He was a killer. 

Then the authorities came knocking with warrants and subpoenas.  They had information.  Lots of information.  The sort of information only an insider would know.  Billions of dollars were frozen in hundreds of accounts.  Mansions and sports cars and yachts were seized as suspected proceeds of crime.  Someone was selling them out.  Someone with a finger in a lot of different pies.  Someone who was maybe looking to clean house so they could take over.

A thief.  A killer.  An enemy.

And so, the Avengers painted a target on everyone known to be associated with Moriarty.  Avenues of assistance were suddenly closed and erstwhile allies distanced themselves - not wanting to be pulled under with what was rapidly turning into a sinking ship. Most of his henchmen knew little to nothing of his larger organisation.  But some knew who was next up in the chain of command.  And they were under pressure to talk, not only from the surprisingly well informed authorities but from enraged crime bosses.  Moriarty inspired fear in his people.  But he neither gave nor inspired loyalty.  Many of his most valuable operatives opted to take what they could and disappear.  Moriarty had others killed to stop the trail upwards before it reached his own door. 

His web grew smaller and smaller.

And the psychopathic genius grew increasingly frustrated and unstable.  Mycroft let them listen to a recording of the man mumbling.  "How?  How?  How?"  Over and over again.  The word jarred like a stuck needle on an old fashioned phonograph.  The full recording ran for over an hour.   Days later another recording disclosed him brutally interrogating three of his top men, certain that one or more must be working against him.  Finally, the demented alpha had murmured, "I don't know.  I just don't know."  Three shots rang out.  And the recording was stopped.

Moriarty started to lash out with increasing desperation, speaking only in euphemisms, setting up multiple decoy operations and only informing his subordinates of his real orders just before they were due to strike.  The release of a neurotoxin at SHIELD headquarters was averted by a matter of minutes.  Mycroft’s black sedan was sacrificed to a car bomb but forewarning and quick action meant no lives were lost.  Throughout, the madman’s obsession with Charles did not abate.  Moriarty consumed every scrap of information he could find about the omega.  The Avengers were busy responding to what turned out to be a diversion when three troop carrier helicopters attacked the Tower.  Sixty heavily armed mercenaries disembarked at the landing strip.  Agent Lensherr, working in conjunction with the ubiquitous Jarvis, had dealt with all of them by the time Ironman arrived.  Stark was quite vocal about making Lensherr some new weaponry.  John suspected it was the brash genius’s way of expressing gratitude although there was also considerable chatter about the expense of removing bloodstains.

From their quiet rooms in Baker Street it all seemed incredibly surreal.  That is until John was slipped something in one of the many cups of tea being handed out at a cold, wet crime scene.  He was being led towards a van in a confused and compliant state when Sally Donovan came to his rescue.  When she and Lestrade visited him at the hospital, Sherlock had left her speechless by solemnly thanking her and complimenting her observation skills.  

After months of surveillance it was clear that Moriarty trusted one man more than any other.  Moriarty called him Seb.  MI5 identified him as a dishonourably discharged alpha British Army sniper, Colonel Sebastian Moran.  Charles confirmed from his service id photo that Moran had been the cameraman at Brookhaven apartments.  Thirteen weeks into their campaign Hank McCoy's device recorded a rambling Moriarty stating,

"You and me Seb.  Only we knew.  Only us two."  And then the all too familiar retort of a gunshot.  "Only me now.  Only me." 

 "He's alone and the price on his head has risen to eight figures," Mycroft informed them smugly. "And when I say his head ..."

"A wounded animal," Sherlock reminded gravely. Mycroft’s smirk vanished.  He nodded in sombre agreement.

Two days later Moriarty went dark. 

No more telephone calls.  No more emails.  And no transmissions from McCoy’s remarkable device. It hadn’t been obvious at first because Moriarty had become increasingly isolated, rarely speaking.  They monitored what was left of his web for even the faintest tremor.

Nothing.

That had been six weeks ago.

And now Mycroft and Sherlock looked like they were preparing for a funeral.

The kettle clicked off.  John filled three of the cups from the good set, the ones with saucers and a picture of Britain on the side.  He placed a small plate with half a dozen chocolate biscuits on the tray then glanced at the silent pair and added a few slices of Battenberg cake, Mycroft’s favourite.  He carried the lot into the lounge and carefully lowered the tray onto the coffee table.  He passed Sherlock his cup first, then Mycroft, settled himself on the sofa and reached for his own.

 He cradled the cup in his lap savouring its warmth and waited.

“Moriarty’s dead,” Sherlock stated flatly.  Oh.  John let that information wash through him.  He raised his cup and took a scalding sip.  He carefully placed the cup back in the saucer.

“We’re sure?”

“Quite sure,” Mycroft confirmed, taking a sip from his own cup.  “It seems the Maldoa cartel caught up with him two weeks ago.  There is a video.  It’s long.  And very … graphic.”  John swallowed.  Torture.  A bad death.  Unspeakably bad.  And they had led Moriarty to it.  He brushed his fingertips against the smooth thin side of the cup.  The warmth became an uncomfortable heat.

Sherlock and Mycroft would have watched the recording closely, repeatedly to ensure there were no tricks.  He felt a little sick and wondered if Charles knew yet.  He and the young omega had become good friends over the last few months.  It had started with a few phone calls and now they exchanged regular, almost daily emails.  Charles would want to know how his brothers were taking this news.  How John was.

 John took another sip of his tea and glanced at the two stone faced alphas in question.

No … there was more going on here. 

Two weeks.  Moriarty had died two weeks ago, but news of his death was only just becoming known.  A wounded animal …

John carefully placed his cup and saucer on the table.

“What’s happened?”  And then it became obvious.  “Oh God!  Charles!  Is he …?”

“Charles is unharmed,” Mycroft assured him quietly.  “There _was_ an explosion at the Avengers Tower.  Two of Stark’s employees are dead.  Over twenty injured.  Stark himself has only bruises and scratches but his bodyguard, a Mr Hogan, is in critical condition.  The Hulk was triggered and had to be subdued by his fellow Avengers.  Mr Barton suffered a badly fractured leg and ribs and Ms Romanova a fractured collarbone and concussion.  Captain Rogers also sustained some minor injuries but most are already healed.”

John closed his eyes.  Until Mycroft continued with,

“There has also been a mass shooting at New Scotland Yard.”  A sickening dread curdled in John’s stomach.

 “Greg?  Sally?”

“Lestrade and Donovan are unharmed,” Sherlock quickly interjected.  “Dimmock is in critical condition.  Three officers are dead.  Eight were wounded, three seriously.”  Sherlock studied the cup in his lap then shifted his gaze to meet John’s. "Tobias Gregson’s dead.”  John let out a long sigh.  Gregson was an older beta – careful and meticulous with a respectful manner and a wry, deadpan sense of humour.  He’d been due to retire in September.

“Damn,” John murmured.  Both alphas said nothing.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” he asked quietly.  Sherlock stood and retrieved the folder from the table.  He handed it to John.  John balanced it on his lap and opened it.

_Sherlock’s Secret Love Nest._

Under the headline was a large photo of John and Sherlock at a crime scene.  They were smiling at one another, John looking up at Sherlock with apparent adoration.  He scanned the text.  _Omega_ jumped out at him from numerous places on the page.  John thinned his lips.

Someone knocked at the door downstairs.

“That is Ms Kitty Reilly and her photographer.”  John glanced up to see Mycroft slipping away his mobile.

“This is her story?” John asked, gesturing towards the folder.  Mycroft sighed.

“Yes.  It was intended to be published tomorrow but I suspect other news will be taking the front page instead.”  John flicked his eyes over the text of the article then looked up at Sherlock.

“Drug addiction.  Sociopathic behaviour.  She also implies that you’re blackmailing me into a sexual relationship.”

“Two out of three …” Sherlock muttered drolly.

“Is she always this venomous or did you put away her favourite uncle or something?”  Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“I met her, once.”  John sighed.

“That’d do it.”  He took a last look at the article then closed the folder and tossed it back onto the coffee table.  Loud, insistent knocking came from downstairs.

“I was thinking that you may like to go somewhere quiet for a while John,” Mycroft advised.  “The Surrey estate …”

“No,” John stated decisively, standing up.  “He glanced over at the auburn haired alpha.  “Thank you Mycroft.  But no.”  He sat down at the dining table, opened his laptop and started to type.  Sherlock came to look over his shoulder.

“Best friend?” he murmured, questioning.  John nodded but didn’t stop typing.  He still pecked things out with two fingers and he wanted to get this done.

“Of course you are.”

“Your uncle …?”

“Passed away seven years ago.  Aunt Lil followed the next year.  No one can touch them.”  John read over what he had typed.

_Stories will be coming out shortly saying that I am an omega.  It’s true.  I am.  I have been lying about that fact for over seventeen years.  The reasons I lied are my own.  My secret is being made public for the same reason as the cowardly attacks on Avengers Tower and New Scotland Yard.  Revenge.  Revenge for our various parts in the downfall of a singularly brilliant and evil man._

_Sherlock is not my lover.  He has not forced me to do anything.  He is my best friend and I feel privileged to have been able to witness and in some small measure assist in his work._

Mycroft was now reading over John’s other shoulder.  He straightened but said nothing.  John hovered the cursor over the post button for a moment, then clicked.

“Done.” 

He felt a firm squeeze on his shoulder from Sherlock’s side. 

“Surrey?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Didn’t let the bastard drive me out when he was alive, sure as hell not going to happen now he’s dead,” John said matter of fact.  He stood and both brothers followed him back to the coffee table.  John picked up his cup of tea and took a sip.  It was the perfect temperature.

His mobile phone started ringing.  Another, even louder, series of door knocking started from downstairs. 

“That was quick,” John said as he pulled his phone out to turn it off.  He froze when he saw the name on the caller id.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice urgent with concern.  John could only blink, staring at the screen.  Mycroft leaned across so he could also see.

“Oh,” he said softly.  Sherlock pulled the phone out of John’s hand.  He stiffened.

“Ah.”  The name flashing on the screen was “Harry”.

“Should I …?” he asked, thumb hovering over the decline button.  John shook his head and held his hand out with some resignation.

“I’ll take it upstairs.”


End file.
